


Silver Nucleus

by drD



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, F/F, Hermione Granger Has a Penis, Pureblood Society (Harry Potter), Wizarding Culture (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:35:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22092676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drD/pseuds/drD
Summary: "She’d watched her friends grow, and snarl, and rumble--speaking a language that she only half understood--while they expressed magic in ways she’d felt but could not return. Even Harry had managed it, near the end, an explosive song that had come from his very core, rage and heat and leadership clear. It was wrapped around their culture, this biological imperative----and she'd hated it."Voldemort needs Muggleborns in a world where they don't Present, but why for? And why now?
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Hermione Granger/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Comments: 23
Kudos: 421





	Silver Nucleus

It was difficult to breathe beneath the weight of  _ His _ magic. Difficult to move. Difficult to  _ think _ … and He relished that. Hermione could tell by the tilt of His inhuman skull and the strange flick of His split tongue between far-too-sharp teeth. Still, there was something more than just alien in His movement. In each careful step He took before their piss-poor line--graceful, yet primal. He wasn’t human, had never been, but she doubted He was wizard either.

She tried harder, still, to not think Him a god.

“Is this all of them?” He spoke, and some of them--even those among His immediate circle--shivered at the tone. It was difficult to describe, the sound that curled beyond her ears, like rumbling rocks or pounding stone. Strong, unwavering, and haunting.

She turned her head and prayed she wouldn’t succumb. 

A figure at His back robed in shades of black spoke with a swallowed tremor, “Yes, My Lord. The entire lot.”

Silence settled, heavy but not unhurried. She heard His movement, the resuming of his pace, and straightened. She would not look at Him, she refused to lift her heavy head, but she would not cower either. Not before Him, not before  _ them _ . Not before anyone. For as rattled as her stuttered mind felt, her ego remained not yet bent. 

Let Him gaze upon them, ogle their torn clothes and rib-jutting bodies. 

_ We were an army once _ , she thought,  _ of dreaming children. _

Now they were nothing.

“There should be more,” He said with a curious drawl. “Where are the rest?”

The voice spoke again, hesitant but open, “Dead, My Lord. Or too broken.”

“A pity,” He responded, “how far the Order has fallen.”

She jerked but did little else and embraced the following quiet.

He broke it faster this time, at the sound of a whiney whimper, “It has been eight years since my ascension.”

A moan came from her left, soft and disparaging.

He continued, “And in those eight years our world has flourished.”

From beneath tangled curls she tried to spy Him, ashamed at her own hunger for information. She’d been underground for what felt like centurious, growing pale despite the rich brown of her flesh and chewing on the regrets of their combined failures. Azkaban had not been kind to her, to them, to any Muggleborn that had found themselves locked in a cell and feasted on by madness. Had He brought them up to the surface beyond their crumbling walls to gloat while her very soul yearned for the feeling of the sun on the flesh and the fresh scent of the grass just  _ inches _ from her feet?

She trembled from the power of her fantasy and thought that He would.

But He didn’t confirm, He only spoke, sibilant and  _ wondrous _ in His power.

She bit her bottom lip.

“The advancement of wizarding-kind has superseded expectations. And yet, there are still some things we must make known...”

A shadow fell before her vision, stretched long and tall. She held her breath. 

“Our magic advances, but our bloodlines crumble. Sullied, not by breeding, but a lack of information.” He paused for a moment, and she heard a body beside her swallow, “I now know how to gather that information.”

The shadow twisted, steady before her presence, and she realized He now stood before her, staring.

Her heart thundered against her chest and slowly she gathered her courage. She was Gryffindor, after all, and no matter the anxiousness that pumped through her blood, if she were to perish, to die, she would do so eye-to-eye.

He smiled without lips and it was horrid and off in it’s unnatural beauty, “Granger, ah yes. I remember  _ you _ .”

Her vision swayed and she responded, “Voldemort.”

His circle gasped, but His smile never left Him, “Have you Presented?”

She blinked rapidly, thrown by the question. Had she Presented? She croaked out, “No.”

He made a strange sound at the back of His throat, a gargling hiss. “And why is that?”

She parted her lips, but no sound came forth. All her life she’d been told she would not Present, that she  _ could _ not Present. For that was a Gift offered only through the purity of magic. Her Hogwarts tenure had been awkward and strange, traversed with the knowledge that all wixen maintained. She’d watched her friends grow, and snarl, and rumble--speaking a language that she only half understood--while they expressed magic in ways she’d felt but could not return. Even Harry had managed it, near the end, an explosive  _ song _ that had come from his very core, rage and heat and leadership clear. It was wrapped around their culture, this biological imperative--

_ And once she’d asked for help from Ron, to try and understand it, and he’d said he’d just… felt it, this urging, this instinctive knowledge of what he had to do. I feel it in here, he’d said while patting his chest, in my magic, my place in our world. _

\--and she’d hated it.

Just one more thing to be excluded from.

“I’ve been told,” He picked up their conversation and tore her from her mind and the memories within it, “that it’s due to your birth.”

And that’s what it’d always come down to, her birth.

“But I’ve of a mind to think we can change that. The most important and monumental event in a young witch's life is her Presentation, after all. Second only to her first expression of magic. And you have that, don’t you?”

She nodded before she could stop herself, proud of her former proficiency. No one could take that from her, not even Him.

He must have seen that in her gaze, for His laughter was loud and calloused-- _ eerie _ . “Muggleborns do not Present. But I think I’ve found a way to force it.”

His power came then, focused, thick, and cloying, as it prickled along her skin. Heavy, she thought, as she wheezed beneath the burden and clutched her chest. Yet, despite His  _ song _ of power, she felt little else. The message, she wondered, the knowledge Ron had always claimed to just  _ know _ . That was missing.

And yet, “So a Muggleborn can still feel it. Good.”

He motioned to the group behind Him, who raised their wands and rattled silver chains.

“A change of scenery is in order. I expect that some of you will like the New World. I also expect some of you to die in it. But to those of you who survive my Silver Nucleus Experiments?”

He clicked His tongue against the back of sharp teeth, “I expect you to breed.”

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0**

Alpha, beta, or omega. Those were the designations of the wixen nucleus. Discovered by the deceased Salazar Slytherin, who’d originally wanted to utilize the classifications to signify worthiness to attend Hogwarts proper, they were now a categorization used to determine the wealth and purity of magical power.

The beta-core was the most common nucleus designation, appearing during the average witch or wizard Presentation. It was recorded when, for a lack of better phrasing, a witch does  _ not  _ Present in an obvious way. Hermione had found the wording rather confusing during her initial studies of the phenomena, but when she’d seen Ron Present, then later Neville, she’d understood the idea of it all a bit better.

Other things changed instead. Scents she’d been told, along with an odd sense of color--Luna had said they were metals mostly. Golds, silvers, and coppers. The others, alphas and omegas, Presented more extremely with a hint of something primal, Hermione had thought. Especially when she’d once caught Harry roaring at Draco to remove himself from his presence. Ron had acted a bit shier when around them, around  _ Harry _ , and Harry had been more touchy--when he’d never much appreciated her hugs before. Every so often she’d felt it, their magic against her skin, as if it were trying to speak to some buried sleepy part of her, but she’d never understood the  _ language _ of their actions.

She certainly wasn’t sure about any smell.

But no matter the classification, it had still boiled down to power, raw and unyielding. An alpha-core seemed otherworldly. An omega-core just as strong, complementary if Hermione had to guess, though no one had really explained it. And beta was just the standard, the general expected way of presenting.

Still, she had never done any of those things, had been told she couldn’t, so her information was suspect at best, wrong at worst. Which meant these experiments… terrified her.

Hearing her jailers talk about it only made it worse.

“Hermione Jean Granger, classification; Muggleborn. No presentation. Gryffindor. Dark Lord says to take care with this one.”

“Must be His favorite mudblood, eh?”

She jerked in her bindings, but found herself immobilized against the heavy slab they’d bound her to in silver chains. The ritualists before her had been talking over her for most of the time they’d stripped her, not that she had much to show off other than ribs and scars--but at least she’d been bathed first, no matter how mortifying.

“Less casual prejudice and more focus, Zabini.”

Zabini, dressed in rune covered robe, toyed with the edge of his gloves and winced, “Sorry, just a bit nervous.”

“We’re all nervous.” His partner responded. Nott, if Hermione remembered correctly. “It’s a lot harder to prepare than, say, the first few times we did this.”

“Don’t remind me. I don’t want another Markson incident. Could barely think past the screams.”

Hermione took a shuddering breath, but did not give them the satisfaction of her fear. Let the two Slytherins talk amongst themselves, like they hadn’t all gone to school with one another so many years ago. They would not break her with just conversation alone.

“Well, less talk about the past and more hope for the future.” 

Strapped to the slab as she was, she couldn’t see past the rise of her heaving chest to figure out what the two men were doing. She heard something rustling, before the  _ click _ of a chain reached her ears. Not one of the ones that weighed her down but something smaller, lighter.

Nott brought it into a version, an odd shaped stone with a rune carved at the center, hung on a chain the color of her bindings. “We’re just going to set you up, Ms. Granger. Then Ritualist Greengrass will take over the rest.”

“It’s a shame,” Zabini drawled with a curious curl of tongue. “If this works… Well, I really wanted to see what she’d Present as.”

“You’ll find out later.” Nott fussed with the clasp of the false-necklace, before he carefully placed it around her neck. The rock-- _ heavy, it was so heavy-- _ rested firmly against her sternum. “If she proceeds past phase one, she’ll be given to Lady Malfoy for phase two anyway and the good Lady always shares her research. It’s her ritual, technically.”

“Yes, I just love doing the prep work and not seeing any of the results for myself.” Zabini groused, but he was the least of Hermione’s worries.

The stone was… distracting. Though she’d heard Nott and Zabini speak further on the ritual and the stages she’d have to survive she just couldn’t remain focused on the details of it. Their flapping lips made sounds of near incoherence, drowned out by the odd  _ knocking _ at her chest. As if her heart was beating to the rhythm of a powerful drum. Not faster, persay just… harder.

She took a deep breath and fought for focus, even as a soft glow ebbed from beneath the slab in a cry for her attention. She wanted, needed, to keep her blurry vision on Nott’s inquisitive blob-like form as he leaned over to inspect the dilation of her eyes. 

“She’s still not talking. Most try around this time.” Zabini said.

“The magic is starting to take,” Nott said, though he seemed nervous as he brushed past Zabini and ignored his statement, “Let’s get Greengrass.”

From one  _ thud _ to the next she lost all semblance of time. One moment Zabini towered over her, with a pensive expression and the next his shape was far more feminine. Shorter. Rounded. 

Greengrass.

She took a raspy breath as the woman worked with black smudged fingers drawing powder from a velvet pouch. The gritty substance tickled as it landed across the sweat-slick center of her belly.

Hermione frowned.

When she opened her mouth she meant to speak, to bring life to the discomfort that twisted behind her chest. 

_ What are you doing?  _ Is what she meant to say.

But a low distressed keen is what actually came out.

Greengrass did not pause in action. She moved her silver powder further, drawing reflective designs past the flat expanse Hermione’s belly to the rise and fall of her chest. For one brief moment Hermione caught her gaze, and what Daphne saw there must have prompted her to speak, with a slight smile and a quirked brow.

“Yeah?” Daphne husked with a rumbling timber, different than the icy mask Hermione had seen her wear throughout their schooling tenure. “Are you already feeling it? That’s very good.”

The powder condensed and drew inward like webbing, making her belly-button more akin to a captured fly. It’s nature was heavy with a sticky density that tugged at her flesh as Daphne drew her haphazard patterns. It made little sense within the weight of Hermione’s mind--and she could barely see them, the lines Daphne drew, from her immobilized angle anyway--but something still stirred beneath her skin, the same sort of heaviness that had captured her heart.

It drummed insistently as the rock began to quake, vibrating to the magic that hummed beneath her back.

That magic filled the silver lines and tugged heat in the dip of each powdered sliver, until the space was saturated with the scent of brimstone and metal. Behind the skin of her belly button, tugged on by magic-webbing, that  _ knocking _ quickened, spilling a strange  _ liquid _ warm with each abnormal  _ kick. _

From one wheeze to the next she was uncomfortably feverish.

Above her, Daphne hovered--more a blur than a person--but she paid Hermione little mind as she glanced over-shoulder. Her lips were moving, but her words were… unrecognizable. Language had escaped her, there was just no more room--

_ No more room in her head for something as human as perception. No more room in her body but the heat and the beat of magic, clawing at her skin, seeking a way within-- _

Hermione’s eyes slammed shut and body spasmed, a separate entity that she could no longer control. She was  _ burning _ beneath the weight of the rock and the silver, overstuffed with nowhere for the magic to go.

Then something touched her, a hand of  _ other _ warmth that seemed both terrifyingly cold and unbearably refreshing. Her body collapsed beneath its firm press, no longer arched in sweet agony, stirred by the pounding within her womb.

The hand slipped lower, long nails scratching, down to the space between her legs that was  _ dripping _ . She hadn’t noticed it before, but the magic was  _ calling _ , prodding at some portion of her that was undeniably primal. Hermione panted and twitched but remained captive, a prisoner within her magic flooded body.

Above her laughter flowed, melodic and  _ sharp _ , like the nails that scratched over the lower-lips of her swollen center--

_ Where had it come from, this sudden inescapable lust, the sort that drilled the pain of need among the high euphoria of unbearable pleasure? _

\--applying  _ just _ enough pressure to ease and coax.

And beyond even that, the tug and pull of her slick lips or the haunting beat of the  _ thing _ within there twisted pressure behind the harsh pulse of her clit.

“Are you ready?”

Words pushed at her consciousness without proper meaning, toned with an authority both lyrical and chilling.

“It’s here.”

Another pair of fingers spread the lips of her core and even the simple breeze felt like  _ far too much _ .

Authority spoke, “Provide the catalyst.”

“Of course,” the softer voice-- _ Greengrass, wasn’t it? _ \--obeyed.

Beyond Hermione’s tearful gaze she caught feminine shapes and a glint of silver. The pouch had been opened again, it’s powder grasped and carefully sprinkled upon the large twitching shape that rested between her legs, the painfully flushed pink of her needy clit.

Silver flowed around the base, glistening from the proof of her magic-induced arousal. It tightened,  _ painfully _ , around her. She bucked as air escaped her lungs, torn from her as the silver hardened, now in the shape of a tiny depraved collar. 

Hermione felt sinfully bound, more so than she had when just wearing chains.

Her hips bucked pathetically as the hands that parted her lips released her. Lewdly, her clit remained swollen between them, thick and collared as the magic sung.

Voices spoke beyond her vision but her attention was pulled  _ downward _ , trapped in the space between her legs. Her hands flexed and pressure rolled in the space behind her clit with each thud of her heart, filling her with more… more what? Blood? More…

_ Magic? _

“Call to her.” Authority spoke.

“Y-yes. Of course,” the softer voice said.

Magic brushed against her skin. Foriegn. Different. Not her own. She could  _ feel _ it, like a physical caress, grasping at  _ something _ .

“Careful. One wrong move and she’ll burn to death.”

Someone whimpered and Authority laughed, bold and amused. 

The magic moved again, a blanket that shivered as if cautious and Hermione inhaled deeply, lulled by it’s feel.  _ Yes, yes _ …

There was something else in the air beside brimstone. Hermione’s unfortunate lust and a little  _ more _ . It made her teeth ache and her mouth water, the scent of sweat and a heady musk that whispered to something ancient within her.

“That’s good,” Authority encouraged, and the something other that brushed against Hermione pushed a little harder.

Hermione snarled and bucked, snapped her teeth at air-- _ she wanted so badly to be free, to ease the pain between her legs, to roll around in that other smell _ .

“Pull back.”

Slowly the otherness, the magic that stirred, peeled away until only the silver’s pulse was left, drilling more of that madness upon her. Hermione moaned, wanton and distressed.

The softer voice was husky now, intercepted by soft panting.

“The slab will do the rest.” Authority said, a bit indulgent. “Send Zabini and Nott for the rest. Hopefully she won’t become a corpse like the others.”

Hermione failed to track any other movement. If Authority and Softer Voice had left she… couldn’t tell. All that remained was need and agony and the thick taste of metal on her lips.

And angry knocking hunger everywhere else.

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0**

Hermione existed. 

She breathed, slept, perhaps even ate. She existed, but not within the realm of normality. She drowned within her mentality, consumed by a sea of reds and violets. Shadow-shapes danced on the edge of her vision and heat coiled nails up and down her spine. She might have called this anomaly an assault of visions, something dredged up by the fever of the dying. 

But she wasn’t dying. Had not died.

She existed… until she  _ woke _ .

“Step back.”

Hermione clawed back to the realm of the functional, fighting through fog and a gut aching nausea. Her arms flopped uselessly and her legs twitched, as if the wires that once made them obey her mind had snapped. In her moment of clarity, she was little else but a clumsy torso, bucking like a fish as she tried to remember how to talk.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d laid there, relearning how to flex her fingers and toes, but eventually she managed to roll onto her belly, and from there movement felt more… simple.

Slowly she pushed herself onto her knees, sat back, and opened her eyes.

“Welcome back.” Authority spoke from her throne of regality, dressed in the finest robes Hermione had seen in sometime. “Aren’t you glad you aren’t a corpse?”

Hermione wheezed out a single word, “Malfoy…”

“Yes, but do be aware that Lady Malfoy is what I prefer.”

Life beneath the reign of the Dark Lord had done little to hamper the status of Narcissa Malfoy. Her prominent status had only been enhanced by the flood of political wealth the end of the war had wrought. Hermione could scarcely remember her time beyond the walls of her once-prison, but the news of Voldemort’s governmental reorder on the lips of braggarts had never really stopped. Hermione had known that the Malfoy’s still lived awash in the medals of Ministry glory, but that had been it.

Still, it was easy to tell Lady Malfoy held some semblance of power in the way she lounged upon her taken seat, it’s tallback upholstery not the least bit distracting when its owner held such a rigid unyielding back. 

Hermione squinted from the reflective light of the pin attached to her lapel of Malfoy’s robes and stumbled with little grace to her feet.

Malfoy didn’t even twitch. It had been a long time since Undesirable Granger been a threat. 

“Welcome to the Garden.” Malfoy said with a graceful sweep of an outstretched arm. “You are Liberated Member number #018, Undesirable Granger. An upgrade from your previous status, per the merciful order of our Most Gracious Lord.”

“And what was that?” Hermione croaked, trying not to sway on her still numb feet.

“Prisoner, Undesirable #1.”

An upgrade from #2 then.

“Wh-what…” Hermione wheezed, “does this mean, then?”

“Ah. Did He not explain?” Malfoy drawled with lowered lashes. “Our Most Gracious desires more  _ blood _ for the masses. Our indulgence and revelry has angered the Olde Ones and is it not  _ all _ our duties to replenish what we’ve taken?”

Hermione swallowed audibly. “I… don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t. They never train you properly, the… Muggleborn. Albus Dumbledore liked pretending this did not exist, our Covenant with the Olde.”

Slowly Malfoy stood from her seat and approached while Hermione shivered, nude before her. Her heels clicked rhythmically, as she stepped. Calm. Controlled. Hermione felt terribly vulnerable before her, flushed in the center of her strange and sterile room.

“All beings born with magic, even those of Muggle birth, have a responsibility to the Olde. It’s a contract as ancient as Merlin or Slytherin.” Malfoy clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth with a gaze that felt invasive in its intensity, “In our eagerness to slaughter we’ve lowered our ability to protect that contract. Magic manifests and guides within the nucleus, our core. Our ways, our very  _ instincts _ have been muddled however.” 

“Do you blame the Muggleborn?” Hermione whispered.

“I blame the lack of respect to the Olde. Dumbledore claimed the Muggleborn do not present. We know that not to be fact. The Muggleborn need to be  _ burned _ . Baptised in the Covenant and blessed. You touched  _ the Wilde. _ Do you remember it?”

Hermione shuddered and sucked on her bottom lip. When Malfoy spoke of  _ the Wilde _ , it felt like she’d assigned it a capital designation. “I… do not.”

“A shame, that.” Malfoy hissed, so she almost touched Hermione’s bare chest. “The Wilde is what blesses the witch or wizard. It welcomes them into the Covenant and in turn they Present. It allows you to hear, feel, taste, and even  _ smell _ , the words of olde. These are the aspects of wixxen that determine how we act. The magic of the Wilde guides, girl. And you don’t even  _ know _ .”

Bitterness churned in Hermione’s belly and soured in her gut, “I did not Present at Hogwarts and I did just fine without the  _ Wilde’s  _ guidance.”

“And that’s the problem, isn’t it? That you turn your back on Power, on the Covenant. Our traditions and rituals make us stronger. Safer. Magic is more than just a tool.”

Hermione opened her mouth then snapped it shut against a sudden swell of irritation. She could practically taste the emotion on the back of her tongue, so  _ vibrant _ it was, so sharp and driving.

Malfoy smiled and that did little to lessen the feeling.

“We are not just users of magic,” Malfoy whispered, her tone somewhat haunting as she loomed closer, “we are slaves to it, driven by it. That is the contract we made with the Olde. But the Muggleborn use it, the Olde One’s gift, and they do not  _ give _ back as properly as they should. Our Lord and His circle will fix that.”

A strange buzzing sensation crawled across Hermione’s shoulders. A restless sort of energy that licked at her skin. “H-how? I thought… I thought they just wanted us to--”

“--breed? Yes. It’s  _ very  _ important that you do. The magic in our world has stretched itself thin. Power needs more wixxen to grow. Newborn or otherwise.”

“But my blood?”

“Meaningless once the Wilde touches you. Your Muggle birth, the abnormality that kept you from the Olde, has been removed. The Wilde  _ burned _ through you and conquered you. Rejoice, for magic has found you worthy and pure.” Malfoy paused then, with a look nearly coy, “Most of you, unfortunately,  _ burn  _ to death.”

The world swam in a sudden kaleidoscope of color as a haunting beat pumped heat through her blood. She swayed for a moment but did not falter as her eyes narrowed and her lips turned upward in a silent snarl--

“Y-you’re just killing us?”

“We’re rehabilitating you.  _ Liberating _ you into a brand new world.” 

Despite the boiling emotion that twisted through Hermione’s body, so  _ sharp _ and painful she trembled, Malfoy remained eerily calm and just… shy of eager.

Something  _ deep _ in her body spasmed and tightened and Hermione nearly bent over from the force of it.

“And now you too must obey the Covenant, just as Our Most Gracious predicted. We will do it, our experiments. We will drag every Muggleborn we must into a century of worship. Magic, true and wild, will be our savior. The world will crumble without  _ you _ , Undesirable Granger. He did not lie when He said you will  _ breed _ .”

Hermione felt infused with a sudden weakness. Her knees buckled at the onslaught of information and her body ached with newfound sensation, as if her skin were far too tight for her body. 

“But enough talk, I think.” Malfoy whispered, “It’s time, isn't it? For your Presentation?”

“M-my what?” Fear threatened to clog her throat, an invasive force over common sense and logic.

“Yes. You’re trying… but I think you need a little help.”

Malfoy was suddenly an overbearing presence. Too close. Too warm. Too  _ beautiful _ against the harshness of Hermione’s sterile white space. An alien  _ plucking  _ danced over her skin--magic, driving and cold. Hermione’s own magic hummed within her, a tightly coiled spiral that threatened to slip beyond her control.

Terrifying, it was intense and terrifying.

Words both coherent and not slipped across her consciousness and hummed with a power that made her heart rattle. Her legs refused to move, locked as they were as Madam Malfoy pushed against her. They breathed, nearly as one unit, as Malfoy leaned over to press her nose against the flush skin of her neck. She inhaled deeply once before Hermione found the courage to step back.

But she didn’t get far. Malfoy remained upon her, an imposing force that held her tightly by the globes of her arse. Hermione gasped from the sensation--her nude skin against Malfoy’s clothed form--as Malfoy laughed against her pulse.

“Where do you think you’re going, #018?”

Lips pressed lightly against the side of Hermione’s neck and she jerked from the sharp ache that followed. The skin there was sensitive, as if it had been seared, and Hermione had to repress a moan when Malfoy’s tongue lightly traced it along it, following in a particular pattern…

“Y-you branded me?”

“How are the masses to know you’re on track to be saved if you do not wear the Garden’s mark?”

Hermione was unable to mourn her branded skin as Malfoy bit her sharply. She jerked in her grasp and snarled from the pain of it, even as her heart began to skip with a strange excitement. 

“Didn’t care for that, did you?” Malfoy sneered, with teeth that seemed far too sharp. 

“Stop,” Hermione hissed.

“No.” Malfoy said, as magic,  _ her magic _ , swept through her emboldened. It twisted around Hermione’s own, cold and strangling and yet--

Hermione was getting so  _ hot _ , so  _ warm. _

That restless energy filled her limbs and she moved her arms to shove and push. Malfoy was ready for her though and easily maneuvered them both to the floor. 

“I can’t believe I’ll have to get my robes dirty. So undignified.” Malfoy croaked against her ear, a knee between Hermione’s legs as she pinned her to the floor. 

In return Hermione said nothing, driven by the incessant pounding of her own magic to  _ fight _ and regain control. She made an inhuman sound, surprised by her own primal reaction but couldn’t, wouldn’t stop her flailing. She was on her back, vulnerable,  _ defenseless _ , too  _ open _ to another.

Her own magic beat order into her head and she fell into the madness of it, arched beneath Malfoy’s stronger body.

“Oh, I see…” Malfoy whispered in a tone that was uncomfortably interested. “You don’t want to be pinned, do you? But you’re beneath me, now. Trapped.”

The knocking behind her belly screeched for more action, but she was  _ weak _ from her prison sentence, and weaker still from the fever that ravaged her mind. Something was  _ wrong  _ with her. It was in the aggressive pounding of her magic and the tension trapped behind her chest.

“I’m so very  _ lucky _ to have bought you, Ms. Granger.” Malfoy mumbled against her neck, crushing Hermione’s bucking body to the floor. She took Hermione’s wrists in one hand and used the other to palm her center. “You’ve become a very wise investment.”

“G-get off me.” Hermione gasped, just as the older woman gave her sex an exploratory squeeze. Her wild motions began to slow, she felt weighted and heavy between her legs, even as something hostile twisted through her belly. Malfoy’s magic held her tightly, a suffocating bondage that made her feel tame.

With careful experience Malfoy manipulated Hermione’s body, twisting her around until she was on her knees beneath her. She flushed with a sense of shame and anger with muscles bunched for a lunge--

Then teeth sunk into the flesh of her shoulder and Hermione arched her spine like a stretching cat.

“O-oh!” She cried out, shocked by the electric shiver that pooled warmth between her legs. The sharp insistant push of the older witches magic eased and soothed and tempted her to... she wasn’t sure.

Malfoy’s only response was to sink her teeth  _ further _ , sending needle pin-pricks of pain to quiet Hermione’s mind.

The hand between her legs began to move, a sensual massage that focused on her…

“Not there…” Hermione mewled as sharp  _ nails _ gently teased along the hood of her clit, nudging and bumping the tight silver collar that still caged her. She couldn’t help her involuntary rocks, the slow and jerky roll of her hungry hips. The simmering fire of fever that had consumed her stirred the pressure that once slumbered between her legs and soon something  _ other  _ began to grow, swelling to painful fullness in soft gentle hands.

Hermione arched her neck and rasped in confused pleasure as something throbbed and pulsed to the beat of her heart, held still within that tight ring of silver.

Teeth released her neck as Malfoy  _ held her _ , “An Alpha then.”

Hermione gasped, incapable of speech as euphoria tickled the back of her mind. An  _ Alpha? Impossible… I’m a… _

Malfoy made a sound of delight and gave her… her  _ cock _ a firm squeeze. Hermione keened, overloaded with sensation as she bucked in that hand, unsure of what she  _ needed  _ but--

“A  _ powerful _ alpha too, to be blessed by the wilde like this. The perfect little pet for my sister, I think.”

Hermione shivered as fear mixed with slow boiling pleasure, crafting an addictive cocktail. She knew of Narcissa Malfoy’s sister. Had heard her laughter among the shadows of her nightmares. The Right Hand of the Dark Lord. His Executioner. His Will. His Terror. She couldn’t, she  _ couldn _ ’ _ t _ be given to… to…

Hermione panted, thrusting against the nails that traced pulsing veins as they explored her. 

“D-don’t touch it.” Hermione whispered, lips parted as something swept over her. Some maddening imperative that demanded the pump her hips without care. She wanted to stop twitching and bucking into those pinching fingers, to stop Malfoy’s hand from  _ agonizingly _ shifting skin over the new sensitive muscle of her bloody magic-blessed cock.

“Oh?” Malfoy whispered sin against her earlobe, tempting and sensual and  _ cruel _ . “Don’t touch it?”

She released her cock to Hermione’s confusion, leaving the new member hanging beneath her belly. For a moment, Hermione felt relief at being listened to. But… something wasn’t right.

“You’re squirming. Is something wrong?”

Malfoy’s innocent ask was mocking at best and did nothing to lessen Hermione’s discomfort. The cock, heavy and full and  _ demanding _ , ached against her belly. Frustration dug nails into her backside and made her thighs twitch. Its tip glistened with moisture, as Malfoy’s hand rested against her belly, pressing inward just so--

“A-ah… that hurts.” Hermione practically whined, feeling foolish for her admission as soon as she said it. Malfoy only laughed over her shoulder, spilling that melodic laughter through her head to mingle easily among the fog of need that suffused her. That spot behind Malfoy’s resting hand felt warm and full, bruised even, of… something that needed to escape. Hermione bit her bottom lip  _ hard _ to keep from whimpering as Malfoy  _ rubbed _ , drawing circles right beneath her belly button, against that  _ spot  _ on her pelvis.

“Oh? It hurts? How odd and strange. Or… do you not know what this is? How… strong these urges are?”

Hermione hissed out a strained breath as the cock between her legs ooze clear liquid. 

“When you first Present the need, the… hunger. It’s so… all-consuming.” Malfoy took a shuddering breath and Hermione felt it vibrant through her entire being, coaxing her magic to intertwine with her own, rocking metaphysically to the sensual rhythm of her words.

“I remember when I presented in my sixth year. I was so  _ hungry _ all the time. It heightens  _ everything _ . You emotions, your magic, your senses. There were times when I couldn’t contain it. When I swore I’d burst.”

Malfoy’s words were accentuated by the careful caress of her hand, the slow precise stroking of that place over her pelvis, where heat invaded but never left. Dizzy, Hermione leaned forward, arched as she pressed her bottom against Malfoy’s own crotch. She barely noticed when the other witch no longer held her pinned wrists. Now her free hand rested on the outside of her thigh, patient and waiting.

It’s just  _ too much _ .

“History with Binns was so awful and useless we’d use that time to… test ourselves. Lady Greengrass and I had a game we’d play. How much could we touch and caress before one of us started to  _ ache _ .”

Hermione felt short of breath. Malfoy’s free hand played with the inside of her inner thighs and slipped upward, closer and closer to the tightness that hung there demanding touch with each needy twitch. The silver band around her cock felt as if it were strangling her, if only Malfoy would… touch her, perhaps ease the tightness with her body so the silver didn’t  _ squeeze _ so firmly, driving her to want to…. Oh Merlin she wanted to do  _ something _ .

“I’ve always been good with… control, little alpha. My good friend would always crumble before me.  _ Beg _ me even, to finish her. But we were never truly satisfied, the magic within us is always greedy, unrelenting. It’s the burden of being an alpha. But do you know what’s soothing? What brings relief?”

Hermione whined and wiggled, wanton. Yes.  _ Relief!  _ She wanted to know! 

Firmly Malfoy grasped her again, held her,  _ controlled  _ her. She froze with anticipation, encased by the warmth of her hand. 

“Breeding with an omega, of course. The guiding ecstasy of true fulfillment can only be found with them. Sure, a beta can keep an alpha… satisfied. But it doesn’t last long. Power calls to power, haunting in it’s constant assault. The magic demands our love from the first moment we Present. Even the games of challenge I played in Hogwarts were a part of the Olde One’s ultimate plan. And now, you too, Granger, are apart of that plan. Will you resist it?”

“Oh!” Hermione moaned as Malfoy began a laborious long stroke, tugging and pulling the  _ thing  _ between her legs as it ate at her sanity in return. “Y-yes? N-no. Oooh… I don’t know!”

“You don’t know?” Malfoy kissed across her shoulder and drew teeth at the marks she’d made against her neck. “Then it seems like it’s my job to teach you. Doesn’t it? I’m more than just a ritualist here. Liberation is a Ministry initiative that my bloc voted through.”

Abruptly Malfoy released her and Hermione nearly sobbed at the loss of heat and sensation. Her hips gave a pathetic twitch, seeking friction for the  _ beast  _ that throbbed there, the thing made from the potency of her magic, her…  _ true  _ self.

“Quiet, little alpha.” Malfoy husked, right before she gave the sterile floor beneath Hermione three rapid taps with her wand. 

Hermione slowly sat up as the floor began to quake and the floor beneath her peeled back, revealing a slightly raised platform that twisted into an indecent shape--tempting and wicked. 

Hermione licked her bottom lip as Malfoy held onto her hips.

“You know what that is, don't you?”

Hermione shook her head but couldn’t take her eyes off the obscene and rounded shape. Behind her, Malfoy snorted.

“It’s called a mimic,” Malfoy pulled Hermione to her feet and the cock bobbled indecently before her, drawing Hermione’s worried gaze. “Specifically, it’s an R-class mimic. For training.”

Malfoy firmly pushed Hermione against the raised dias and the… ‘mimic’ at the level of her hips, quivering. Hermione’s breath deepened as the oddly shaped blob continued to morph, becoming impossibly more perverse.

She turned her head away, inflamed and embarrassed just by looking at it.

“It’s for rutting. Breeding. And to train little alphas on how to  _ fuck _ so they don’t break their partners with their magic or their cocks. Do you understand?”

Indeed, the mimic must have been for something sexual as it had finally settled into the shape of an upturned arse, it’s genitalia flared and swollen as it dripped before them. Hermione could scent it’s… arousal, unmistakably wixxen like with a flare of something else. It was exciting, reminded Hermione of the sensation of having Daphne’s magic tempt her when she was bound to the slab.

She… she  _ wanted _ to… fuck it.

“You truly are a magnificent specimen, Ms. Granger. An alpha fit for the House of Black, but no member of the house, freshblooded or otherwise, will be allowed to exist without proper discipline. I will teach you control, least your magic consume you. And it  _ will _ consume you, the Wilde will always command you to  _ love _ . If you want to be liberated, to truly taste freedom, then you will do as I say when I say to do it. Starting with this.”

Malfoy carefully angled Hermione’s hips and the most she could do was moan softly, feeling the heat of the false sex against the tip of her cock. 

“In return, Ms. Granger? You belong to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, and any wixxen you craft will be bound to that house.”

Then, without hesitation, Malfoy shoved Hermione’s hips forward, sinking her thickness into the quivering warmth of the mimic’s pussy-flesh. They stayed like that for awhile. Hermione shocked and frozen, assaulted by the cage of sensation as it stretched around her, while Malfoy held her carefully and tightly, controlling her hips.

Hermione wanted… she  _ wanted to move _ .

But Malfoy kept her stable, even when the mimic’s false-sex began to  _ squeeze _ and  _ suck _ .

“Ugh, p-please, please, pleaseplease--”

“No.” Malfoy stated firmly. “Think. Pull back.”

But Hermione didn’t  _ want _ to think. She wanted to  _ fuck _ , to slam wildly as her core commanded her to do. A wild howling pounded between her ears, a song of mindlessness that suckled at thought. It felt so  _ good _ to be within this…  _ creature,  _ to drown in the heat that wrapped tightly around her. Hermione’s hands clutched at the soft flesh in front of her, squeezing the mimic’s torso-- or were they hips?

It didn’t matter.

“Our magic does not understand  _ finesse _ , but I know you do. If you cannot control yourself now, you could  _ hurt  _ someone.”

Hermione shivered at the implications, knowing what was being said without being said. But desire throbbed throughout, just shy of pain as Malfoy slowly-- _ so fucking slowly _ \--pulled her hips back.

“I won’t…!” Hermione gasped, “W-won’t hurt.”

“I know you don’t want to, little alpha… and I’ll make sure of it. It’ll be hard, so hard for you…” But Malfoy seemed anything but concerned. She seemed slightly excited, “We’ll have to do so much  _ work _ to keep you under control. You don’t have the advantage other wixxen had. They explored and pressed and tested much younger than you are now.”

Hermione felt Malfoy smile widely against her shoulder, “I can’t wait to keep you in line with any means necessary.” 

Slowly Hermione was allowed to push back in, the suckling texture of the mimic pulling against her magic, tempting her to thrust  _ faster, harder, forever _ \--

But Malfoy was there, her hands against her hips, pulling her back out, pushing her back in, coaxing her into a rhythm both maddening and satisfying… then slowing her down for tormenting education.

“That’s it, my  _ alpha _ . In and out like that. Roll your hips up a bit--see, there? How it quivers? If that were a real wixxen, if that were my  _ sister _ , you’d have them in your power. Moaning for more.”

Hermione rumbled deep in her chest, delirious from the fantasy. There had been so many times back in her school tenure when she’d craved to feel another within her power, to erase the sense of helplessness she felt in a world that had always rallied against her. What would it have been like to order the boys around? To demand Harry  _ listen for one bloody second _ . She’d known what they’d done Gryffindor during those last moments before the war and had gracefully ignored it. It had driven her crazy knowing Ron’s bruised lips were a product of Harry’s wildly grinning ones. Or that Lavender Brown only moaned like  _ that _ whenever she shared her bed with Parvarti. She’d caught two Slytherin’s giggling once, when she’d caught them in a broom closet with a Hufflepuff. And when she’d been in Grimmauld with the Order, there had definitely been something odd going on with the way Tonks had eyed her--

\--it all suddenly made so much sense.

Her head fell back against Malfoy’s shoulder and her arms rose to link behind her neck. Her hips now moved to the mindless rythme, driving herself closer to something she held no name for yet. All that she knew was that place within her pelvis felt full, ready,  _ so ready _ to burst. She was going to… to--

“Not so rough.” Malfoy murmured as she slowed her hips again. Hermione snapped her teeth at air in primal frustration to the sound of the other witch’s laughter. 

“M-malfoy. I want… I  _ need _ \--”

“Narcissa,” Malfoy husked, “Call me Narcissa. We’ll be family soon and we’re already so  _ close _ .”

Hermione momentarily forgot to breath as Malfoy-- _ Narcissa-- _ sped up their cadence. What was once a slow dance of pleasure and torment became a whirlwind of sensation and aggression. The wild sounds of hips against the indecent shape of mimic seemed loud in the otherwise empty sterile room. Within the warmth of the creature’s sex her cock throbbed with a sensation Hermione could not name. That tender place within her throbbed in time to the pleasure in her cock and pressure burned right at the base, that spot imeded by the silver collar.

“O-oh! Narcissa. I-It doesn't… feel--”

The silver tightened and kept  _ something  _ within her, some need to... do something incredibly necessary. 

“The collar contains you. It… won’t allow you to  _ knot _ .”

Hermione’s mouth fell open but she had no words. Narcissa kept them one at a rapid pace while her cock  _ ached  _ unbearably, waiting for one  _ final step _ . 

“It would be such a terrible waste, to knot a rut-puppet. No. I’ll save that for my sister. Your first locking.”

Pain and pleasure battled with the need Narcissa denied her, but little else could be done to hold the crest of something hot and liquid back. Though her cock could not knot as Narcissa had stated, it could still  _ release  _ whatever was within. Narcissa shoved her once, twice, three times more into the creature before Hermione jerked and cried out, as the space behind her belly button yanked and  _ clenched _ .

Her release was overwhelming, an explosive wave of intensity that ripped away her breath and clenched  _ everything _ . It cycled higher as it rippled up her spine, but despite it’s sweetness something had been…  _ missing _ . 

As Hermione settled, sweat-slick and panting, Narcissa slowly pulled her back.

Her cock was still hard.

“Ah, how potent. Without being able to knot your target you must feel so… unfulfilled.”

Hermione flushed, embarrassed at the hard and messy state of her body. Why, why was she still so  _ hungry _ .

“The beauty of the silver collar. It really does drive you new Presenters practically insane. But, it does make it much easier to… tame you.”

With an agonizing slowness Narcissa began to push her back, back into the mimic and the depths of depravity.

“W-wait! I… no. I don’t need to, to do this again!”

“No need to be shy, Ms. Granger. Your liberation has just begun and you have  _ so  _ much to learn before you can join the House of Black properly. Now that you’ve learned the taste of an alpha release, it’s time to teach you how to hold back.”

The mimic’s sex gave Hermione a loving squeeze, warm and melting, her cock practically  _ sung _ with renewed hunger. She wanted to thrust, to go wild, all over again. To feel the sharp oblivion of orgasm. 

“Oh? No more complaints?” Narcissa rolled their bodies into another sensual dance, rhythm that was different than Hermione’s exploratory thrusts, “I’m glad. Especially since this next lesson will be a bit difficult for a new hungry little alpha.”

Hermione panted, greedy for more pleasure, mind already wrapped around her alpha-needs. 

“Good girl.” Narcissa said, “I hope you’re ready Ms. Granger. I’m not going to let you cum.”

O-oh yes, yes--wait what.


End file.
